disappeared as the convoy sped down Highway 101, finally turning onto a road called Highway 280. Piper rapped her finger on the dashboard of the passenger seat, every fiber of her being alive with anticipation. After decades of hope and longing, she was finally with her children, but she wondered for how long. One was barely clinging to life, the other was out of her mind. The ragged crew of survivors shared a common thought that seemed to hang in the air—home. They all dreamed of reaching it, resting, regrouping, and rethinking their plan of attack against the growing feral abomination that was spreading toward them like a rash. The ocean came into view, and soon they saw a large body of water, the name of which was labeled on various faded metal signs. “San Francisco Bay,” whispered Rathbone, now at the wheel of his Jeep. “Been ten long hours. We’ll take shelter for the night just up the road.” “Is there a new safehold in this area that I don’t know about?” Piper asked.
